Regency Mistresses: A Practical MistressThe Wanton Bride

by Mary Brendan

  ‘It’s nothing of the sort, Emily,’ Mark reassured, his stern profile softening. ‘Your brother has undoubtedly been foolish, but not criminal.’

  Emily nodded quickly, gratefully, indicating she was ready to hear the worst of it.

  Mark stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned to face her. He cast down his eyes, his expression contemplative, as he sought an appropriate way of relating a sordid tale. A good deal of young men, while drunk, had been unruly and lived to regret it. Mark was no exception to that rule. But generally a gentleman strove to be discreet, and protect himself and his family from the consequences of his excesses. He certainly avoided binding himself to his sinful past. ‘I told you that Tarquin hasn’t been seen since my brother spotted him loitering in Covent Garden,’ he carefully began to explain.

  ‘Yes,’ Emily breathed. ‘And I know he was consorting with harlots that night.’ She swallowed her embarrassment at the indelicate turn to their conversation. ‘I understand why you said nothing; it is an awkward subject for a gentleman to discuss with a lady.’ She delicately coughed. ‘But I think we both know protocol is of scant importance at present.’

  ‘Who told you about that?’ Mark frowned, for his memory had immediately pounced on the fact that Nick Devlin had recently been in Riley’s company. The Viscount was an unpleasant character and he certainly hated Tarquin. But surely even he would not be so mean as to bring to a sister’s attention her brother’s lechery?

  ‘Helen told me she had seen Tarquin on that occasion in Covent Garden. We are intimate friends, and able to talk about anything at all … good or bad …’ Emily said by way of explanation.

  ‘As you know that much, you should also know that Mickey Riley is a pimp. I tracked down Riley in Houndsditch and he told me why Tarquin has gone into hiding.’ Mark swiped a hand across his jaw as he looked down into a visage of pure pale beauty. Emily’s luminous eyes were hungrily fixed on his face, but it was just information she wanted from him, whereas what he wanted … One of his hands started to travel towards her, but before he could sense the warm skin of her complexion beneath his fingers they were brought back to the cold stone ledge.

  He felt selfish for wanting to touch. He wanted to offer comfort, but it was primarily desire that had urged him to reach for her. He took a few steps away, removing himself from temptation. ‘Your brother took a shine to one of Riley’s women,’ Mark informed huskily. ‘Her name is Jenny and Tarquin had visited her on several occasions. The last time they met he was allegedly very drunk and very amorous.’

  Emily swallowed the hard lump forming in her throat. She could tell that Mark was uneasy about giving full details of the disaster. Obviously it was of a vulgar nature. Suddenly she guessed what it might be. Once the awful thought was in her mind she had to know. ‘Are you about to tell me that my brother has fathered a bastard?’

  Mark frowned pensively. ‘Mickey Riley didn’t make mention of a child. But if there is one, now or in the future, it won’t be a bastard. Your brother has married Jenny.’

  ‘Married? Tarquin has married a harlot?’ Emily’s voice was little above a whisper and her eyes were enormous dark pools in a face that might have been carved in white marble. Suddenly she gasped a laugh. ‘The rogue is lying! Riley probably hopes to extort money from us with a ridiculous trumped-up tale. Tarquin is a gamester, not a womaniser. I’m sure he has never given marriage, even to a respectable lady, a single thought.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt Jenny was exceptionally persuasive,’ Mark said in a tone of dark irony. ‘And Riley isn’t lying.’ His expression became sober. ‘I made him divulge the whereabouts of the minister alleged to have performed the ceremony. Today I visited Jeremiah Plumb. He is not a very savoury character, but he is a man of the cloth and remembers the couple. It seems the marriage is valid.’

  Emily blinked to clear the mist from her eyes. Agitatedly she twisted this way and that before coming to a halt facing the darkling gardens. Her hands gripped tightly at the balustrade and her blonde head dipped in despair towards them.

  Mark positioned himself just behind her slender form, resting his palms comfortingly on shoulders that were tense and shaking. When she did not immediately shrug him off, his thumbs stroked with tender sensuality against her flesh. ‘I’m sorry to be the one to bring such bad tidings. But you did want to know.’

  Emily nodded morosely. ‘The selfish … stupid … wretch!’ she suddenly spat though small pearly teeth. She spun about and gazed up at him with tear-glossed eyes. ‘He has given no thought again to how this will hurt our parents. Or how it might affect Robert. Robert idolises him, yet he has shown him no proper example, as an older brother should. If Robert were to be led astray by such behaviour, it would break our parents’ hearts.’ Her muted outrage ended on a watery choke. The lulling sensation of Mark’s fingers moving on her skin calmed her, and she stayed within his casual embrace, her mind furiously working. ‘Now I understand what Riley is about. He is urgently seeking Tarquin so he can blackmail him. He wants money for his silence. But even if we pay what he asks, what good will it do? Sooner or later it will all come out.’ Her voice trembled into depressive quiet.

  Mark slowly slid a hand to her nape, soothing softly beneath silky blonde curls. His dark head bent close to her, his lips discreetly skimming a crown of scented hair. ‘Hush … Riley can be dealt with quite easily. And a divorce can be arranged. It will be possible to contain the worst of the scandal, I’m sure.’

  ‘Do you truly think so?’ Emily clung to his sleeves, shook them a little to drag from him more reassurance.

  ‘I do,’ Mark stressed gently and urged her closer to him. He lowered his head and touched his lips lightly to hers. It was a mild salute, almost passionless.

  The anguish churning Emily’s stomach was slowly transforming into an infinitely nicer sensation. Warmth was stealing through her cool limbs, bringing a welcome relaxation to her tight muscles. What she had just learned had obliterated all memory of Mark’s mistress, of her vow to shun his advances, from her mind. She simply yearned for more sweet relief from fretting on an impending calamity. She closed her eyes in wordless agreement.

  Mark was swift to oblige. His mouth slid against hers with more pressure this time, tenderly persuading her soft lips to part, allowing him to taste the warm silk within.

  Emily pressed closer, needing his strength and protection. When his firm hands started to trace her silhouette, she clung to him, responding to his artful caresses with sighing pleasure. A sudden noise shattered the spell.

  Mark cursed beneath his breath as he noticed that the terrace doors were being brushed back and forth by a low branch of a tree. ‘There’s nobody there; it’s just the wind strengthening,’ he murmured as Emily would have pulled away.

  She relaxed again, accepting the comfort of the strong arms that bound her to him. Quite naturally her face found a nook beneath his shoulder in which to nestle. But even as she craved again to feel his mouth on hers, her mind was clogged with questions. ‘But … what if … what if there is a child?’ she insisted with a hint of hysteria. ‘What on earth is to be done then?’

  With a quivering hand silencing her gasp of dismay, Barbara Emerson retreated from where she had been eavesdropping by the French doors. From the moment she had seen Mark talking to Emily Beaumont in the drawing room, her instinct had been to find out what was going on. Since the afternoon when they had all met by chance outside the modiste’s, she had been alert to Mark’s attraction to Emily.

  After her husband had died Barbara had taken great pains to lure Mark back to her. She had been sure that she could kindle his continuing desire for her into love. Then she would get him to marry her once a decent period of mourning was done.

  But years had passed since then and, although Barbara was sure she was the most important woman in Mark’s life, she had accepted she would never again be the only one. She knew of his brief liaisons with a society beauty here or a little actress there. A few months ago an Itali
an soprano had taken his fancy. Barbara had never let it show that any of them bothered her, but she had been relieved when the pretty songstress had flown away home. Lovely Signora Carlotti had been a worthy rival.

  Now lesser mortals were aspiring to fill the soprano’s place. Lady Goodrich had been risibly unsubtle in her pursuit at Vauxhall and Verity Marchant was constantly bumping her buxom hips against him.

  In retaliation Barbara had taken a particular fancy to a few handsome gallants who danced attendance upon her. She had conducted discreet affairs—she knew Mark would not tolerate being the object of ridicule. But, if he had been jealous of those young gentlemen, he had admirably concealed it.

  Nevertheless Barbara had always been sure that she held the key to Mark’s heart, no matter their trifling peccadilloes. He might dally elsewhere, but she was the constant in his life and she had been confident that he would eventually make her his wife. Now she was frightened that her dearest ambition had been snatched from her grasp.

  She flattened her back against the wall, her face a mask of shock and fury. She had not witnessed all that had gone on between Mark and Emily Beaumont on the terrace, but she had seen and heard enough to understand that she was losing him. She had glimpsed with her own eyes the kisses, the tenderness bestowed by her lover on another woman. And then the little trollop had mentioned a child! Emily Beaumont must believe herself to be increasing with Mark’s bastard! And, from Mark’s loving attitude towards the scheming hussy, Barbara guessed he might ask Miss Beaumont to marry him!

  Barbara felt her back teeth grind in rage and frustration. She had hoped that she might conceive. She knew Mark well enough to realise that he would cherish and protect his firstborn, and the child’s mother. But he had always been careful to let the sheets, or her belly, catch his seed, thus far denying her the right to his family and his name. Now that sly minx would usurp her place as his wife. Barbara dashed away the wrathful tears stinging her eyes and stiffened her spine. She was not about to put paid to years of devotion to Mark Hunter. He was hers and she would keep him!

  Barbara glanced swiftly about the deserted room and noticed that a young fellow was wandering about, peering here and there, as though searching for someone. She thought she recognised him and, as he turned her way, a smile tilted her lips. It was Miss Beaumont’s loyal puppy. He had been escorting Emily earlier and giving her moon-eyed looks. No doubt he was in pursuit of her just as she was in pursuit of Mark. In a flash of inspiration she recollected his name was Stephen Bond and his grandmother was Augusta, a friend of their hostess.

  Barbara stepped over to Stephen and gave him a bright smile. Her fan was theatrically employed to cool her flushed face. ‘It is so hot, is it not? I expect you slipped away from the concert to get some air. I did too.’

  A neutral smile and a polite nod were his response. Stephen made to move on to look elsewhere for Emily.

  ‘Might I ask you to accompany me to the terrace, Mr Bond?’ Without awaiting a reply, Barbara attached her hand to the crook of his arm. ‘I expect we will both benefit from a little night air.’

  Stephen grimaced in barely concealed annoyance—it was the second time that evening that a woman, not of his choosing, had urged him to act as her escort. But he was too much of a gentleman to refuse. His frustration was limited to a terse, muttered agreement. An angry blush stained his fair cheeks as he allowed Barbara to steer him towards the terrace. As they approached the doors his misgivings increased. He looked askance at her. Without apparent cause she had suddenly burst into shrill laughter.

  Barbara had a very good reason for creating a din. It was her intention to alert her faithless lover to her presence. She didn’t want anyone else to witness that he was paying ardent attention to another woman. Especially not this fellow! Were Stephen Bond of a jealous, fiery nature—Barbara took a glance at him and curled a smile at the improbability—a rumpus might ensue and then her humiliation would become common knowledge.

  Her loud giggling had the desired effect. With a groaned oath Mark gently put Emily from him and, threading her arm formally through his, began to lead her back towards the drawing-room doors. They were a few paces away from the light when Stephen and Barbara appeared on the terrace.

  ‘Emily! There you are. Are you not well?’ Stephen asked in concern, immediately quitting Barbara’s side.

  ‘I … just felt a little hot,’ Emily explained with a strained smile. ‘I’m better now.’

  ‘That is good,’ Barbara said sweetly. ‘I have some salts you may borrow if you think it might help.’

  Emily gave a quick shake of her head and murmured thanks.

  ‘If you are a little feverish, you ought to hurry inside, Miss Beaumont, in case you take a chill.’ Barbara gravely advised. ‘Besides, I expect your mother has missed you too. She will have been imagining all sorts of odd things to be responsible for your absence.’

  Emily avoided Mark’s eyes as she joined Stephen. She had gone with Mark to the terrace determined that she would not again succumb to his skilful flirtation. Yet he had easily brushed aside her principles and her inhibitions and started to seduce her.

  Just a short while ago she had criticised Tarquin for jeopardising her family’s reputation. Yet had she not acted with equal disregard for decency? She had known very well that Mark was spoken for. She had also known that his mistress was close by, yet still she had let him kiss and caress her.

  And how very firmly attached he was too! Emily had obliquely observed Barbara glide to Mark’s side, then curl white fingers possessively over an elegant dark arm.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hunter, for your kind escort,’ Emily said with stiff formality, and guilt writhing in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘You’re very welcome to it, Miss Beaumont,’ Mark returned easily. His eyes rested for a long moment on Stephen, making the young man shift rather uncomfortably.

  When Emily pulled gently on Stephen’s arm to indicate it was time to go inside, her escort’s relief was obvious enough to tug a side of Mark’s mouth into a smile.

  ‘Where have you been hiding this evening, Miss Beaumont?’ Augusta Bond raised her lorgnette and peered shrewdly at Emily. ‘You missed some good music, you know.’

  ‘Emily was taking the air on the terrace, with Mr Hunter, Grandmama.’ Stephen had answered after a short pause, for Emily seemed to be in a daze that had deepened a dent between her delicate brows.

  ‘Ah …’Augusta said, and gave a significant nod. Her gimlet eyes shifted behind the glass to the people just entering the room. Barbara Emerson had a fierce determined smile on her face as she looked at her lover. Augusta was not fooled. It was not simply that the gentleman looked detached, and had his eyes on Emily. Augusta could easily tell when a woman was worried that she was about to be pensioned off. She had been cast aside herself by gentlemen friends before Mr Bond had swept her up the aisle.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Bond … did you say the concert was enjoyable?’ Emily babbled, for she had sensed Mark’s presence in the room, and his eyes on her.

  ‘I did. And I’ll also say that I had a notion you might do better for yourself than Nicholas Devlin.’ The old lady had lowered her voice to add that. She gave Emily a subtle smile. ‘I should like a glass of champagne. I think you deserve some, too, miss.’ Augusta turned to her grandson. ‘Miss Beaumont and I are off to have a chat to Fiona before the orchestra starts up again. Fiona knows all the latest gossip and I must have something to tell them back in Bath.’

  ‘Are you soon going home, ma’am?’ Emily asked, desperately polite, as she tried to concentrate on anything at all other than what had occurred on the terrace with the imposing gentleman they were about to pass.

  ‘I’m not sure when to leave,’ Augusta replied. ‘But before I go, I’d like to see Stephen happy.’

  ‘Yes, of course …’ Emily frowned and stole a glance at Augusta’s profile. ‘You think he is unhappy, ma’am?’

  ‘Indeed, I do. And he always will be while he hankers afte
r you,’ Augusta said bluntly. ‘You’re a nice gel, Miss Beaumont, but you’re not right for my grandson.’

  ‘What a fine evening it was to be sure. Even the presence of that vinegar-faced Violet Pearson could not ruin my enjoyment.’ Penelope slipped off her shawl and did a little twirl on the rug. ‘Our hostess spent far more time talking to us than the Pearsons.’ A wicked smile animated Penelope’s face. ‘We have Augusta to thank for being so favoured, and for making Violet so obviously furious.’

  Emily gave her mother a smile and sat down in a chair in the parlour. They had not long ago arrived home. All Emily desired now was to sleep. Her head ached from her efforts to either make sense of the troubles that rotated dizzily in her mind, or banish them completely. Her eyes felt hot and weary. But her mother was eager to talk, for she had very much enjoyed their outing, and it would be churlish to deny her a brief résumé of gowns, gossip and guests.

  ‘Well, I do think you could show a little more enthusiasm, Emily.’ Penelope had guessed that her daughter was keen to retire. ‘Lady Gerrard seemed to like you very much. And so did her nephew. I saw Stephen give him a scowl when he twice asked you to dance.’ Penelope chuckled. ‘It will not hurt Stephen to know he has a rival. Although I’m not sure the Brettles have as much money as one would expect for people related to the Gerrard clan.’

  ‘It was all very pleasant indeed,’ Emily said with a fleeting smile. ‘I’m quite tired, Mama. I think I’ll go up, for I can hardly keep my eyes open.’

  Penelope shrugged and pouted in disappointment. ‘Oh, by the by, where did you get to during the concert?’

  ‘I was on the terrace … getting some air … I told you,’ Emily said quietly.

  ‘Ah, so you did. You were with Tarquin’s friend, Mr Hunter.’ Penelope gave a sigh. ‘I expect you were trying to find out what he has discovered about the rogue. Must you tell me anything?’ she asked in a martyred tone. ‘I know your papa has no news of him at all.’